Santa Claus's Partner eBook

At length, Livingstone’s sense of injury became
so strong, he could stand it no longer. He determined
to have a talk with Clark.

He opened the door and walked into the outer office.
One of the younger clerks was just buttoning up his
overcoat. Livingstone detected a scowl on his
face. The sight did not improve Livingstone’s
temper. He would have liked to discharge the
boy on the spot. How often had he ever called
on them to wait? He knew men who required their
clerks to wait always until they themselves left the
office, no matter what the hour was. He himself
would not do this; he regarded it as selfish.
But now when it had happened by accident, this was
the return he received!

He contented himself with asking somewhat sharply
where Mr. Clark was.

“Believe he’s gone to the telephone,”
said the clerk, sulkily. He picked up his hat
and said good-night hurriedly. He was evidently
glad to get off.

Livingstone returned to his own room; but left the
door ajar so that he could see Clark when he returned.
When, however, a few moments afterwards Clark appeared
Livingstone had cooled down. Why should he expect
gratitude? He did not pay Clark for gratitude,
but for work, and this the clerk did faithfully.
It was an ungrateful world, anyhow.

At that moment there was a light knock at the outer
door, and, on Clark’s bidding, some one entered.

Livingstone, from where he sat, could see the door
reflected in a mirror that hung in his office.

The visitor was a little girl. She was clad in
a red jacket, and on her head was a red cap, from
under which her hair pushed in a profusion of ringlets.
Her cheeks were like apples, and her whole face was
glowing from the frosty air. It was just her
head that Livingstone saw first, as she poked it in
and peeped around. Then, as Mr. Clark sat with
his back to the door and she saw that no one else
was present, the visitor inserted her whole body and,
closing the door softly, with her eyes dancing and
her little mouth puckered up in a mischievous way,
she came on tiptoe across the floor, stealing towards
Clark until she was within a few feet of him, when
with a sudden little rush she threw her arms about
his head and clapped her hands quickly over his eyes:

“Guess who it is?” she cried.

Livingstone could hear them through the open door.

“Blue Beard,” hazarded Mr. Clark.

“No—­o!”

“Queen Victoria?”

“No—­o—­o!”

“Mary, Queen of Scots?—­I know it’s
a queen.”

“No. Now you are not guessing—­It
isn’t any queen, at all.”

“Yes, I am—­Oh! I know—­Santa
Claus.”

“No; but somebody ’at knows about him.”

“Mr. L—­m—­m—­”

Livingstone was not sure that he caught the name.

“No!!” in a very emphatic voice and with
a sudden stiffening and a vehement shake of the head.